Buckingham Palace Gardens

by Anne Perry

  “Elsa…” he stopped.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know who did it, and I can’t prove I didn’t. I know she was sleeping with Simnel a year ago, and if not now, then only from lack of opportunity. I didn’t care. I long since realized I didn’t love her. I’m guilty of that…of not making her happy. If I had, perhaps she wouldn’t have turned to anyone else.”

  “You don’t have to make love with someone else because your husband doesn’t want you,” she said quietly. “That doesn’t make it right. Especially if the other person is married also. Even if they aren’t, it’s a betrayal. How could that other person then trust you?”

  The silence pounded like a heartbeat. There were not even any creaks of settling wood to disturb the night.

  “They can’t,” he answered. “But you are speaking of love, and I wasn’t. She doesn’t love Simnel, nor he her. It’s a hunger of a different kind, selfish. It makes you a lesser person, not a greater one.”

  “And what does a greater one do?” Did she want to know what he thought? Was it not better to keep the dream whole? There would be no tomorrow in which to mend it. This would be all she had, forever.

  “It makes you want to be the person they could love,” he answered her very softly. “At least honest and generous, and attempt to be brave as well.”

  The tears filled her eyes and her throat ached almost unbearably.

  “I’m trying for honest,” he went on. “I didn’t kill Minnie, but I am guilty of not wanting to build the Cape-to-Cairo railway. I wish I had had the courage to tell Cahoon outright, and withdraw. We should build railways from inland to the ports, in each region if they want them, but keep the Empire on the sea. That’s enough power for any nation. We should leave the heart of Africa alone. It’s not ours. The fact that we might be able to take it is irrelevant. But they will be able to build it without me. I can’t do any more, but I hope I would have had the integrity to pull out, and tell them why.” He hesitated. “Please believe in me, Elsa, that I would have. I can’t ever prove it now.”

  “I believe you,” she said immediately. “I…I do.” She had almost said “I love you,” then stopped. He needed trust more than emotion.

  “Don’t give up. I’m going to find Pitt. I have something to tell him.”

  “Now? What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. About three, I expect. Something like that.”

  “You can’t wake him up at this hour!”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Elsa!”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For believing you? That’s not necessary. I do.”

  He had no idea how little she had believed him before this moment, but this was not the time for the self-indulgence of telling him. Nor was it the time to say she loved him. He knew that. And she did not want to make him feel as if he had to respond. It would betray this gossamer-thin honesty.

  She found the key in her pocket and opened the door. She hesitated, almost said something, then changed her mind and went out, locking the door again behind her so no one would know she had been there.

  She returned the key to where she had found it, and then went to waken Pitt. Of course it was appalling to disturb him at this hour, but later might be too late. She had no idea when the police would come to take Julius away. Cahoon would have it done as soon as possible.

  She was still wearing her dinner gown, which was crumpled now, and her hair was coming loose from its pins. There were probably dried tears on her face. None of this mattered. Another hour or so and it would be light. There was no time to waste in mending her appearance.

  It took her a few minutes to find Pitt’s room, and then several more to steel her nerve to knock. It was necessary for her to gather her courage again before the door opened. Pitt stood there blinking, the gaslamps turned up behind him. He was wearing a nightshirt and robe, and his thick hair was tousled, but he seemed quite definitely awake.

  “Mrs. Dunkeld? Are you all right? Has something happened?” he said with alarm.

  “I need to speak to you,” she replied as levelly as she could. “Urgently, or I would not have disturbed you this way.”

  “I’ll be out in five minutes.” He did not argue but went back into the room. Five minutes later he emerged again, this time fully dressed and his hair in some semblance of order. However, he looked haggard with exhaustion and there was a dark stubble on his cheeks and chin. He led the way to the room where he worked, and opened the door for her.

  “What is it, Mrs. Dunkeld?” he asked when they were inside and the lamps lit.

  “You found the shards of a Limoges plate in the rubbish, didn’t you?” she stated.

  “Yes.”

  “Was it a pedestal dish, mostly white with a gold trellis border around the edges, and in the center a man and woman sitting on a stone garden seat? They both have blue on, a vivid shade of cobalt. I think it is his coat, and a sort of cloak for her.”

  In spite of his weariness his attention was suddenly total. “Yes. Have you seen it? Where?”

  “In a box my husband brought with us.”

  He looked stunned, as if what she had said were incomprehensible. “Brought with you?” he repeated. “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely. It cannot have been the one which my husband said was broken, in Her Majesty’s own bedroom. It must be one exactly like it.”

  “You are certain, Mrs. Dunkeld?” he insisted.

  “Yes.” She felt the heat creep up her face. Did he imagine she was inventing it to protect Julius? He knew how she felt, she had seen it in his eyes before, a certain pity. Damn him for understanding! “He couldn’t have given it to the Queen,” she said aloud. “It would have been in a box, and left for her to open.” She was talking too much. She stopped abruptly.

  “I know. This one was apparently given to her by one of her daughters, some considerable time ago,” he said, and the gentleness was in his eyes again. “But did he bring a gift for the Prince of Wales, do you know?”

  She was puzzled. He seemed to have missed the point. “Yes, but it was not particularly personal, just a dozen or so bottles of a very good port. I think they have already been drinking it. Why? How can that matter? It’s a fairly usual thing to do.”

  “Port?” he repeated.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Do you know from what vineyard?”

  “No, but Cahoon said it was extremely good. But then he would hardly give the Prince inferior wine.” She forced herself to ask, whatever he thought of her. “Does the dish not matter?”

  “It matters very much, Mrs. Dunkeld. And so does the port—or at least the bottles do. Please don’t mention them to him, or to anyone.” He was very serious, staring at her intently. “It may put you in danger. Three of them were found with traces of blood in them. Now you understand why you must mention it to no one?”

  “Blood?” She was startled, and filled with a sudden hope so erratic and so sweet for a moment she found it difficult to breathe.

  “Yes. Now please go back to your room, to sleep if you can. Thank you for coming to me. It must have taken great courage.” He stood up, a little stiffly, as if he were so tired that to straighten up was too much effort.

  She realized he must be afraid too. He not only had to solve these murders quickly, and discreetly, but he had to find the answer that the Prince of Wales wanted and that his superior at Special Branch could accept. He was a man pressured from all sides. And his own compassion, and his sense of justice, would be compelling him also, probably in a different direction.

  There was a sharp bang on the door, and then it flew open and Cahoon strode in. He too was fully dressed, although unshaven, and obviously in a towering rage.

  “I assume you have some explanation for interrogating my wife at three in the morning?” he said savagely to Pitt. “Who the devil do you think you are? If my poor daughter hadn’t solved the case for you, at the cost of her own life, I would have y
ou removed, and someone competent sent in. However, there is nothing left to do, except have Sorokine taken away and then get out yourself.” He turned to Elsa.

  “Go back to bed,” he ordered.

  She stood still. “Mr. Pitt did not send for me, I came to see him.” She would not have Pitt blamed; it would be both shabby and dishonest. She was fighting for everything that mattered to her, win or lose.

  “Do as you are told!” Cahoon said between his teeth.

  She did not move.

  Pitt also seemed perfectly composed. “Mr. Dunkeld, did you bring a gift of a case of port wine to the Prince of Wales?”

  “What?”

  “I think you heard me, sir. Did you?”

  Cahoon was incredulous. “Three o’clock in the morning, and you want to know if I brought wine for the Prince of Wales?”

  “Yes, I do. Did you?”

  “Yes. Best port I could find. It’s the sort of thing gentlemen do.” His tone was acutely condescending.

  “And the Limoges dish, was that a gift also?” Pitt asked.

  This time Cahoon was definitely taken by surprise. “What…Limoges dish?” His hesitation was palpable.

  “The one in your case, sir. Is there more than one?” Pitt’s voice was polite, but the cutting edge was unmistakable.

  For an instant Cahoon obviously debated denial.

  “A white and gold pedestal dish,” Elsa supplied for him. She was fighting to save Julius, grasping at straws, but all decisions were made and it was too late to go back. “With a garden scene in the middle, a man and woman sitting on a stone seat. Their clothes have a lot of blue in them.”

  “You have been searching through my cases!” Cahoon accused her.

  “I have no interest in your cases,” she replied, feigning slight surprise. “Your valet was unpacking and did not know what to do with it. You were with the Prince of Wales, so he asked me. I told him to leave it where it was. If you don’t recall it, I’m sure he does.”

  “Sarcasm is most unbecoming in a woman, Elsa,” he said icily. “It makes you seem cold, and mannish.” He turned to Pitt. “I am afraid it is a matter I cannot discuss with you, Inspector. It was a favor for His Royal Highness, to whom I gave my word. I am not sure if you can understand that, but if you cannot, and you wish to challenge him on the matter, then you had better do so, at your own risk. I have nothing to say. I have no idea whether you have duties to perform at this hour, but I am returning to bed, and my wife is doing the same. I assume you will be removing Sorokine before I see you again. I suggest that you do so as discreetly as possible.”

  Elsa’s heart tightened and she found it difficult to draw air into her lungs. All her fighting, all the hope, and it was ending like this.

  Pitt stared at Cahoon. “If he is taken, it will simply be to a place of safety. There is much yet to learn before the case is over,” he answered.

  “You don’t seem to have grasped the obvious.” Cahoon’s voice was exaggeratedly weary. “Sorokine is mad. He suffers some form of insanity that drives him to murder a certain type of woman. He killed one in Africa several years ago. We thought then that it was a single aberration and would never happen again. So far as I knew, it hadn’t. Then this week he killed the whore. Minnie realized what had happened, and I presume was rash enough to face him and accuse him, so he killed her too. No one else is involved, except possibly my wife in her reluctance to accept the facts. She is not used to the violence and tragedy that can occur in life. She was not with us in Africa, and she tends to be something of an idealist, fonder of dreams than of reality.”

  Pitt’s eyes widened. “Are you saying that Mr. Marquand at least was aware that his brother killed this woman in Africa?”

  Cahoon was caught slightly off-balance, but he recovered quickly. “No, but I think he feared it. Watson Forbes was aware. That is why he would not permit his daughter to marry him, even though she wished to. Hamilton Quase was a far better choice. Ask Forbes, if you doubt me. Now I am going to bed. Elsa!”

  Elsa looked at Pitt, met his eyes for a moment, then turned and obediently followed Cahoon out into the corridor. She did not know whether she dared to hope, or not.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  PITT WENT BACK to his bedroom and lay on the bed, but he did not sleep again. He believed Elsa about the Limoges dish, because Cahoon did not deny it. Certainly she was desperate to save Julius Sorokine because she was in love with him, but even so he did not think she was lying. Were she to do that, she would have done it sooner, and to more effect. She would probably have said that he had been with her at the time of the death of one of the women, or even both.

  Would Sorokine have agreed to that, even if it were a lie, in order to save himself? Many men would, regardless of the cost to Elsa’s reputation, and possibly her marriage. Pitt did not think Cahoon Dunkeld would be loath to divorce her for adultery, especially one so publicly acknowledged.

  If Dunkeld had brought a Limoges dish identical to the one broken, that was surely too extraordinary to be a coincidence.

  Was there something in this whole terrible affair that was premeditated? The murder of Sadie? But none of the women had been here before. And surely they couldn’t predict which ones would come. Killing her in such a way was the impulse of a madman. Even were it in some way thought of in advance, how would anyone know she would be in the Queen’s bedroom, or that that particular dish would be broken? It was not possible. That was why Dunkeld had not taken more care to keep his bringing the dish secret, perhaps unpacked it himself. It was coincidence, something that made sense only afterward. But how?

  And the port bottles, at some time filled with blood—there was no proof whether they had come full or been emptied out then refilled, possibly from the kitchen. But if the latter, by whom, and when? How could anyone obtain the blood, and fill the bottles unseen? There was always kitchen staff around. Nevertheless, it must have been the case: a fine example of opportunism.

  Bringing them full of blood spoke of detailed and very careful planning for a very precise need.

  Was it even imaginable that in some way the murder was foreseen? By whom? Obviously Cahoon Dunkeld. A man does not plan to be insane at a specific time, in a specific way.

  But a man might know that someone else is insane and that certain very particular events will fire a breakdown of his usual control. If a man is terrified of spiders, or thrown into a rage by being laughed at, then his behavior is foreseeable.

  A man who commits grotesque, uncontrollable murders is triggered into such action by a certain series of events happening in order. The pressure becomes cumulative, and he cannot bear it. Did Cahoon Dunkeld understand such a weakness in someone, and deliberately design the events that would make it explode? Could any man be so evil? Of course. There was no evil imaginable that someone would not commit. But would Dunkeld be so reckless, here in the Palace? The dangers were enormous. But then so was the prize—if it were the African railway that was at stake.

  The sunlight came through a crack in the curtains and fell in a bright bar across the floor. Pitt stared at it, bewildered. How could a murder help Cahoon in that project? It looked far more likely to ruin it.

  Perhaps it was not the railway that was the prize at all, but something else. Maybe it had to do with Julius Sorokine’s love for Elsa. Did Dunkeld care enough to punish Sorokine for…what? Pitt doubted they had ever acted on their feelings. And Dunkeld did not love her, of that he had no doubt at all.

  Perhaps it was to free Minnie, and what happened to Julius or to Elsa was immaterial. That was easier to believe.

  Then who had killed Minnie? Surely that was never part of Dunkeld’s plan. Had Julius Sorokine been a far wilder and more dangerous weapon than he had foreseen? What a vile irony!

  And why the Queen’s bedroom? That must have been planned, because that was where the Limoges dish was. Had he always intended to move the body and place it in the linen cupboard, or was that improvisation? Why? Pitt�
��s mind was racing. If Sadie had been killed in the Queen’s bedroom, by the time she was moved to the cupboard, she would have stopped bleeding profusely. So the extra blood was to fling around so it looked as if she had been butchered there. Then it was meant from the beginning, all of it. But again, why?

  And why was she naked? Minnie had been fully clothed. Was the answer that Sadie had been murdered in madness, but Minnie had been killed because in her driving curiosity she had come far too close to the truth?

  Again, an obscene irony. Dunkeld had provoked a terrible murder born of madness, in order to destroy his son-in-law and free his daughter from the marriage. Then her intelligence had made her such a danger that in hideous sanity Sorokine had aped his own lunacy and killed her to protect himself. No wonder Dunkeld now looked like a man haunted by far more than grief.

  How could Pitt prove that? How much did it matter? If Sorokine were guilty of the murders, then he had to be put into an imprisonment of some sort. That was just. Dunkeld was a man even more evil, in that he had deliberately hired a prostitute with the intention of provoking Sorokine into murdering her, but his plan had exploded in his face, destroying his only daughter for whose freedom the whole tragedy was devised. Surely to live the rest of his life knowing that it was he who had caused her death was a more exquisite punishment than the law could ever devise?

  And what would happen to Elsa? She would eventually either sink into madness, clinging to the delusion that Sorokine had been innocent. Or she would eventually realize he was guilty: a divided man, half of him charming, cultured, someone she could love; the other devoid not only of sanity but of the basic elements of compassion and decency that make one human.

  Pitt could not imagine that Dunkeld would afford her any kindness. Her punishment for falling in love with someone else, the man who had also failed to love Minnie, would be continuous cruelty. He would exercise it both privately and publicly.

  Pitt needed to prove all of it. Justice required it, whether the Prince of Wales liked it or not and, in turn, punished Pitt.